


Sunday Breakfast

by Hangmansjoke92



Category: In the Loop (2009), The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 14:31:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17603123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hangmansjoke92/pseuds/Hangmansjoke92
Summary: A nice sunday breakfast ends in a discussion about relationships and a lot of swearing.





	Sunday Breakfast

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction.   
> There are so few Jamie Fanfictions and I couldn't resist to bring this on paper.  
> English is not my first language but it would be a crime to write this in german and waste this precious accent. Sooo, I know my grammar is aweful and I have a limited idea about the english punctuation. When your eyes start to bleed, feel free to contact me, I can scream at my english teacher then. 
> 
> A general warning... this is the crossest man in scotland, so there is a lot of swearing.

“What the actual fuck? She’s wearin’ the blue dress so it’ll be a boy? Didn’t the brainless people of Great fucking Britain have more important problems than the gender of the little tittsucker, which she’ll squeezin’ out of her royal vagina?”  
Jamie looks up from the issue of The Sun with a face as if he never heard something more disgusting than the discussion about the new baby of Kate and William.

She looks at him from the other side of the breakfast table.  
It’s Sunday, Jamie isn’t allowed to read a real newspaper on Sundays. There was too much damage to the china in the past. So he’s condemned to go through the shitty magazines, which are laying around.

“The people are just interested in the doings of the Royal Family”, she replies dryly.

He’s almost choking on his Lemon Zinger. Coffee is also a big No on Sundays. It’s like pouring jet fuel in an apocalyptic hellfire and she has no desire to play firewoman so early in the morning.   
Jamie secretly enjoys the citrous taste of the tea, but god forbid that he would ever admit it out loud. Actually it is quite relaxing not having his hand shaking all over the place and sporting a nearly normal heartrate.   
If there wouldn’t be this fucking blue dress and the article in The Sun about it.

With his bare feet propped up a chair, dressed in a flannel pyjama bottom, a white t-shirt and hair slightly askew he continues to rant about the dress choices of the Duchess.

“A blue dress, the same blue dress she was wearin’ before. Maybe she just bloody likes the colour blue or is not so influenced by the idiotic fashion twats so that she actually wears a dress more than one time before it goes to a stupid auction where some wanker pays a million pounds for it, just to spread his cum all over it while listening to Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” in his Moms garage”. 

She rolls her eyes. ”It’s just a dress Jamie. Are you not a little bit curious about the gender?”  
He sneers at her. ”Why should I? It will be so far away from the throne that the corpse of Queen fucking Mum would look like an agile, young lassie in comparison, when it’s his turn to reign.   
And why it’s even important? You are the damn gender-equality-feminist-shit here. You should burn yer bras and chanting that we are all equal, carrying around signs, which say “Queens rule” or “Victoria was more a man than Henry VIII”, in front of the Palace. Till the fucking guard drags you away kickin’ and screamin’ like the good old frigid Emeline.”

“Emeline Pankhurst wasn’t frigid, you massive chauvinistic prick”, she gives back.

“Oh come on, a little dick up her fang filled cunt would’ve made her not so smug and glum. Hell, I would’ve fucked Emeline Pankhurst. A good Scottish lay in the hay. And when she’s finished, gasping for air and reachin’ for a cigarette, I would’ve enough energy left to ram my cock up the shitters of people who care about dress colours and baby genders. There would be no time debatin’ if it’s a boy, a girl or a fucking amphibious creature with five eyes. Nevertheless takin’ bets on that best example of a bloody insignificant subject”.

Silence…a very suspicious silence.

Jamie throws The Sun, which is almost ripped to shreds on the table and looks with huge, shocked eyes at the woman in front of him. 

“You are fucking jokin’, aren’t ya?”

“What? It were just ten bugs”, she has the dignity to look embarrassed. 

“Are you fucking nuts? You take your hard earned money and use it on such a stupidity? Why you don’t just flush it down the toilet…oh, or give it to Mark Zuckerfuck, he doesn’t have enough of it already. You could although start a foundation which will build a machine to suck the cocks of little, teenage boys with no arms and legs”, he rants on. 

“Wouldn’t it be enough, when they just hadn’t got arms”, she scrunches up her forehead. “I mean, it’s quite difficult to masturbate with only your legs, or not?”

Jamie looks at her, deep in thought, then his eyes wander to his legs and then to his crotch, contemplating the possibility. Then he realises on what he’s wasting his precious brain capacity and shakes his head.

“Fuck You!”

She laughs. ”No need, you did that last night.”

He grins at her. ”Yes, I did, pretty thoroughly.”

Now that he is in a better mood she decides to change the subject to a more serious one. No time like the present. Her smile fades and she says:” You know it’s about time to tell Uncle Malcolm?”

There it goes, his smug smile dribs of his face like diarrhea out of a hairy asshole. His whole body goes rigid. When you look closely you can see a little panic in the eyes of the crossest man in Scotland.   
Blind, naked panic. Jamie thinks it’s probably the first time he ever experiences this feeling.   
He doesn’t like it.   
It’s definitely more fun to raise terror in others. Shit, if he imagines the face of the bringer of darkness, when he finds out that his very carefully cultured enforcer, some even would go so far and call them friends, fucks his niece, he starts to feel little droplets of fear-piss in his boxer briefs. 

“Jamie? It would be quite practical, if you say something. You know, conversation. Two people talking to each other”, she gesticulates between them and then waves her hand in front of his face. “Jesus Christ, stop looking like a dear in the headlights. It won’t be so bad.”

“Not so bad? Not so fucking bad?” he exclaims, raising out of his stupor. “No, it won’t be bad, it will be a fucking shit hurricane. A shit hurricane who morphs together with a tsunami of piss and on top of it a nice fuckload of STDs…and the plague…the good, old, medieval plaque with bumps, purulence and blood coughing till yer lungs comin’ out and wringin’ themselves around your neck and strangle you to death.”

“I think you are overreacting, he likes you”, she says. “You don’t have to go into detail how we’re fucking around. We just sit down and say:” Malcolm, we are in a relationship. Happy Birthday, Merry Christmas. Let’s get the Scotch and have a laugh about it.”

Jamie takes his feet off of the stole and starts to skit restlessly on his chair.” Are we?”

“Are we what?” she asks,

“In a relationship?” God fucking Lord, there is heat raising in his face. Em-fucking-barrassing. He feels like his balls were chopped off.  
That’s right, every time he comes over he takes a nice sharp razor blade, cuts off his nuts and hangs them over her night lamp by himself.  
She doesn’t have to ask for it or do anything. From the start it was like that. When he saw her for the first time he even forgot his favourite curse word.   
And now he’s sitting on a good damn breakfast table and talks about relationships. Maybe they should braid their hair next and toss some glitter in the air. He could buy a white horse and ride it through London with fairy wings on his back, so that every fucking one sees it.  
Jamie “the bloodhound” MacDonald gave his manhood to a female 5’2 dwarf with a sharp tongue and a death glare gifted from fucking Satan.

“Well, we certainly fulfil the basics”, she interrupts his pink and fluffy train of thought. 

“Oh, the relationship basics. Where did you get these? From the Cosmopolitan? Right next to “How I loose five tonnes of weight while only eating cabbage and farting like a sailor, so that you are thin like a stick but no one wants to put his stick in you”, now he feels better, it’s easy to push uncomfortable thoughts away with a good rant.   
“James, could you be serious for one time in your bloody life? Just shut your filthy motherwell mouth”, she says with a deep sigh.

No, he definitely can’t do that. It’s deep embedded in his genes to spread a massive amount of expletives out of his mouth with 300mph and no one can stop him.  
“Don’t call me James. Only my Grandma did that and she was a scary old bitch. Shoutin’ like a lunatic and hittn’ me with her shoe just because I didn’t eat my beans. And I hate beans. These green, flailing monsters of vegetable shit which taste like the cum of a very old man with tripper.”

“I will be the scary one here, if you don’t stop now and have a serious discussion with me. I won’t just hit you with my shoe, I will shove it up your arse so high, that it can roast your tonsils over a little campfire”, she thunders. 

Jamie raises his hands. “Okay, calm down, oh mighty witch of the east. The family genes startin’ to show and I find that quite disturbing on a number of levels.”

“Very funny”, she continues in a more taken aback voice. “You have the choice face my wrath or Uncle Malcolms. I think we better tell him about us now, before he finds it out by himself.”

“How the hell should he find out that we have our happy time together”, he asks. “I am certainly capable of keeping my mouth shut”,

She lets out a not so lady like snort and raises an eyebrow on him.

“Hey, I hold secrets of the government I my brain and don’t go blubberin’ them out to everyone how knocks on the door of my cheap apartment”, he exclaims offended.

Their argument is interrupted by the ring of her doorbell.

 

“See, doorbell ringing and I am perfectly content to keep all my thoughts to myself”, he says.   
“Jesus Christ, is the apocalypse upon us or are the hordes of Dschingis Khan racing through the fucking city?” he shouts as it chimes for a second and a third time.

“For Christ sakes, it’s fucking Sunday”, she gets up and crosses the hall to her front door. She throws it open, ready to give the person a piece of her mind, who dares to interrupt her breakfast.

“Oh bollocks”, she sighs, when she realises who is standing in front of her, with a bag from her favourite bakery in hand and a smile that slowly turns acidly.

“Good morning to you too, sunshine I thought it would be a good idea to visit my only family member whose company doesn’t make me vomit, but it seems you are rather occupied”, Malcolm says while contemplating her attire with a raised eyebrow.   
“This shirt looks awfully familiar”, he presses through his teeth.

You could hear a distant crashing sound and a string of muffled curses from the kitchen.

Malcolms smile turns feral.


End file.
